


Sleep Well Tonight

by Ad_Absurdum



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Smiths
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morrissey's got a few things to apologise for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep Well Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Never happened, all slander and lies.  
>  **A/N:** The story is set in 1997, at the time of the court case. For the purpose of this fic the events of 1993/94 (the photograph in the end notes and Jake's "lodging" with Morrissey) are happening in 1997 as well. As is Andy's divorce with Maxine.

The insistent peal of the doorbell was starting to get on Jake's nerves. Frankly, it started to get on his nerves about twenty seconds after it started ringing. Which was - he looked at his watch - three minutes ago.

Whoever stood outside didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave. Or give that doorbell a rest.

Jake gritted his teeth and got up. Honestly, he _was_ Morrissey's bodyguard and something of a personal assistant _and_ his lodger (a room with a separate kitchen and bathroom and the house was big enough he and Moz didn't even have to cross paths if they so wished. Not that they did) but the man could really open his own door once in a while.

On the other hand, Jake was sort of responsible for dealing with uninvited journalists and over-eager fans so he supposed it made perfect sense that he should be the one in charge of the door-opening duty.

It was still annoying, though.

Honestly, if the sod on that doorstep turned out to be a journalist, the bloke was going to get a fist in his face. If it turned out it was a woman standing there, Jake was not above doing the same. All the journos were the same after all. And really, Jake had Morrissey's callendar for the next two weeks memorised and there wasn't a single interview or photo session in them.

The doorbell's annoyingly cheerful tones echoed around the hall once again and Jake - a threatening gleam in his eye - finally yanked the door open.

"Yeah?" he asked, glaring.

Before him stood a bloke: long coat, long hair and shades in spite of the fact that the sky was overcast with lead-coloured heavy clouds and the sun was absolutely nowhere to be seen.

The bloke was smoking a cigarette which he now flicked expertly to land a yard away in a tiny puddle in the crack between the flagstones.

Jake watched the cigarette butt's final flight with a frown and then moved his eyes back to the face of the sod before him.

The corner of the sod's mouth was curled up in a small smile that looked more like a sneer.

Jake's frown deepened. He noticed with almost a snort that the sod had the most poncey-looking excuse for a beard Jake had ever seen. A strip of hair down the middle of his chin. Really, who the hell was it? d'Artagnan without his three musketeers?

And Jake would have laughed at his own thoughts except the sod peered at him over the rims of his shades and spoke.

"Jake, isn't it?"

Jake realised the annoying sod looked somehow familiar.

"And who are you?" Jake stared him down.

The sod nudged his sunglasses up his nose again and grinned.

"Mozzer in?"

Jake had enough. "Look, if you're some sort of journalist, get an appointment through Morrissey's manager, all right?"

The sod laughed at that.

"Do I look like a journalist to you?"

The answer that he looked like a twat was on the tip of Jake's tongue, but before he could say it, Morrissey wandered over to the door. His glasses perched on his nose, a book in his hand and an intrigued expression on his face.

"Have I just heard...?" he trailed off when his eyes landed on the sod who was currently annoying Jake.

"Andy." Morrissey's face lit up with a smile. "You came."

Jake stared, a little disconcerted by Morrissey's smile. Who the fuck was Andy?

"Of course," 'Andy' replied. "How could I refuse such a thoughtful invitation?"

He stepped into the house, pulling something from the pocket of his coat.

"The invitation," he murmured as he moved past Jake, not even sparing him a glance, but handing what turned out to be a postcard.

Jake took it mechanically. On one side there was Morrissey's familiar scrawl: _If convenient, come at once. If inconvenient, come all the same._

Jake sighed. Well, he did notice a volume of Conan Doyle's stories on Morrissey's bedside table.

He turned the postcard in his hands. On the other side there was a photograph of a bloke with his arse out, made famous by the fact that it was also the front cover of a Smiths' single. The fine print along the edge of the postcard helpfully provided the title: _Hand in Glove_.

Jake frowned and then his eyes widened as he finally realised why that sod on the doorstep seemed familiar.

"Well, fuck me sideways and call me Lola," he muttered.

Well, well, well, who would've thought Morrissey had eyes for someone beside Johnny as far as his former bandmates were concerned? That certainly wasn't the impression Jake was getting every time Moz mentioned The Smiths. It had always been Johnny this and Johnny that and you could almost hear Moz thinking the sun shone out of Johnny's behind.

Why the hell was he suddenly so interested in Rourke?

Jake finally closed the front door and went into the living room. Morrissey was nowhere in sight, while Rourke - hands in the pockets of his jeans - stood before Morrissey's bookcase, looking at the books piled on the middle shelf. He still wore his sunglasses.

"Where's Moz?" Jake asked.

Rourke made a vague nod towards the corridor leading to the kitchen.

"Making tea," he said, still eyeing the books.

He cocked his head to one side and suddenly smiled at something he saw.

Jake experienced an unpleasant feeling of being a stranger in his own house. The titles of Morrissey's book collection never meant anything to him except the obvious - he did know about Morrissey's interest in feminism slash art slash music.

What did Rourke see there?

"There you are." Morrissey returned to the room, bearing two steaming cups. He placed them on the coffee table standing in front of the overstuffed couch Jake never really liked, and sat down.

Jake noticed the pointed absence of a third cup. It might have been because Morrissey only had two hands, but Jake didn't think so.

"Oh, Jake." Morrissey turned to him. "Please, bring your camera. We'll need it."

Jake's surprise was echoed in Rourke's next words.

"We will?" he asked, sitting on the couch beside Morrissey.

Awfully fucking close, Jake noted.

"Yes, we will," Morrissey stated with finality. "Now drink your tea."

"Yes, dear," Rourke muttered with a cheeky grin in Morrissey's direction.

Morrissey hid his own smile in his teacup.

A bit creeped out, Jake went to fetch his camera. When he was coming back, he stopped before he entered the room. There was a wall that hid from view anyone coming from that direction and on top of that, the couch faced the opposite entrance. Jake just couldn't help himself, too curious about what the hell those two could talk about.

He carefully peeked from behind the wall.

"Wearing sunglasses indoors is positively eccentric," Moz was saying. "Do you wear them at home as well?"

"Sometimes," Rourke replied with his nose in the air.

"Whatever for?" Morrissey seemed genuinely surprised.

"My eyes sometimes hurt from the light."

"Oh." There was a brief silence. "Does it happen often?"

Rourke shrugged. "Depends."

There was a clink of china on china as Morrissey put his teacup down.

"May I?" he asked, reaching for Rourke's sunglasses.

"Yeah, go ahead."

Jake watched with mild disbelief as Rourke leant even closer to Moz, who delicately took his sunglasses off and placed them on the table beside his cup.

"Is this okay?"

Rourke blinked rapidly a few times. "Yeah, guess so." He smiled.

Jake coughed loudly and walked into the room.

"Got the camera."

He sat down in an armchair beside the couch. Those two seemed far too cosy there. Possibly territorial. Jake preferred some distance.

"Excellent."

Neither Mozzer nor Rourke seemed flustered or even the slightest bit embarrassed by their earlier behaviour. Which Jake could have witnessed. That he lurked behind the corner and did witness it was beside the point (but it did make things worse). Jake scowled.

"Andy, take off your shirt," Morrissey ordered.

"What?" Rourke was startled enough to put his teacup down rather more forcefully than was needed. The tea sloshed dangerously close to the rim, a few drops landing on a saucer under the cup.

For his part, Jake was so shocked by Mozzer's unusually straighforward approach that he almost dropped the camera he was holding.

What the fuck?

"What?" Morrissey looked at Rourke calmly, not really phrasing it as a question. "You told me yourself I've got some apologising to do, did you not?"

Jake raised his eyebrows. What the actual fuck? He realised he must be goggling, probably with a pretty gormless expression on his face, but he really could help it.

He noticed that Rourke glanced at him furtively before burying his face in his hands. Something like a weak groan emerged from behind his fingers.

"And then, there's the court case soon," Morrissey continued.

Jake, still goggling, opened his mouth to ask 'What fucking court case?' but Rourke was faster.

"Fucking court case," he muttered and glared at Morrissey. "Why are you going ahead with this anyway? You _agreed_ the original contract was crap and you _agreed_ to split the royalties equally."

Morrissey smiled a little wistfully, it seemed to Jake.

"Well, I can't have _all_ the people that pay attention thinking I was wrong, can I?"

Rourke was still glaring, but now a little suspiciously too. "Have you just admitted to having a Pope complex?"

Morrissey grinned. He honest-to-god grinned. Jake stared some more.

"I've admitted nothing of the sort."

"Right," Rourke muttered.

"But going back to the essentials," Morrissey went on. "I want you to have something to remember that whatever happens, I..." he trailed off. [1]

Rourke's glare softened. "This is going to be bad, won't it."

"Let's just say I'll probably have a lot of apologising to do."

Rourke lifted his eyebrow. "Will you, now?"

His voice dropped in register to something suggesting utterly filthy things.

Jake felt like he'd just entered the Twilight Zone.

Morrissey quickly averted his eyes from Rourke's face and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well. The shirt, Andy, if you please."

Rourke, now wearing a rather indulgent smile, stood up and began to unbutton his shirt. Jake felt it was high time to remind those two about their audience. Namely Jake himself.

"Erm, right. I'll just pop out for an hour or two then, all right?" he finally managed.

Rourke glanced at him disinterested, but Mozzer waved his hand.

"No no, Jake, stay here. We'll need you to take a few pictures."

"We will?" Rourke frowned at Morrissey, laying his shirt on the back the couch and unwittingly echoing Jake's thoughts.

Jake got a bit worried. Just what sort of pictures required Rourke to be half naked? He shuddered with dread.

Morrissey sighed. "Andy, do pay attention. I want you to _have_ something. Now, come here."

Rourke stood obediently before Morrissey who took a marker pen, that until now lay unnoticed on the coffee table, and began to draw something on Rourke's stomach.

Rourke showed no signs of surprise. Not for the first time Jake thought The Smiths must have been a bunch of fucking weirdos.

There was something like resignation in Rourke's voice when he asked, "This is a permanent marker, isn't it?"

Jake leant slightly to one side in his chair, trying to see what Mozzer was drawing. It turned out to be an elongated circle around Rourke's navel. There was already an "M" to the left of it and Jake nearly rolled his eyes. Apparently Moz was actually writing "MOZ" on his former bandmate. Judging by Rourke's reaction, it wasn't the first time either. Proprietary bastard, Jake snorted to himself.

"There." Moz patted Rourke's hip. "All done."

Rourke scrunched up his nose. "Is this supposed to be a part of your apology? Marking me as your property?"

"Andy, you've never been and never will be my property."

Morrissey stood up and for a moment he and Rourke were far too close for Jake's comfort. Then Morrissey touched lightly - with just the tips of his fingers - Rourke's cheek and Jake was smacked right in the face with sudden realisation. So, they were _that_ close, to put it euphemistically.

Well, fuck. Who would've thought it wasn't Johnny Fuckin' Marr who Morrissey really took a fancy to.

"Come, lay down." Morrissey was meanwhile guiding Rourke down to a sheet-covered floor.

Jake decided that if Moz wanted him to take photos of the two of them in mid-snog - or worse - he was definitely gonna tell him to get lost.

"What the fuck are you up to, Moz?" Rourke sighed, but allowed himself to be arranged to Morrissey's satisfaction.

"You'll see."

Morrissey lay down himself and rested his head against Rourke's crotch.

"Jake, take a few pictured of us like this, will you?"

Jake did what he was told without comment, though feeling like a right pervert all along.

This was only _slightly_ better than catching them mid-snog. Though when Mozzer turned his head a little, almost fucking _nuzzling_ Rourke through his jeans, Jake wasn't so sure of that.

"Ssss-Morrissey," Rourke hissed.

Jake thought he rather meant to say something different than that.

Mozzer moved his eyes from Rourke's belly button to his face and smiled with satisfaction. Smirked actually.

"Don't," Rourke warned him, glancing at Jake and lifting himself on one elbow.

"Lay down, we're not finished yet." Mozzer nodded at Jake to continue.

Rourke sighed and did what he was told.

Jake took another photograph, still feeling like a perv. He caught on film the image of Morrissey with his eyes closed and his face half-turned into Rourke. He gritted his teeth just as Rourke reached down and slipped his fingers into Morrissey's hair.

What the fuck now?

"That's enough." Rourke closed his fist on Mozzer's hair and gently tugged.

Jake had never heard words more beautiful. He breathed a sigh of relief and lowered the camera.

Morrissey looked like he was pouting.

Jake stared.

"Oh, all right." Mozzer got up from the floor and turned to Jake.

"Thank you, Jake," he said, adjusting his shirt. "We won't keep you any longer. You wanted to pop out somewhere?" he enquired politely.

Jake blinked. "Uh, yeah."

He didn't really, but thought he'd better run if he wanted to avoid any further, er... action.

"Yeah." Jake placed his camera on the table and hastily left the room.

"I think you've just traumatised him." Andy picked up his shirt from the back of the couch and started putting it on again.

"Hm?" Morrissey turned from contemplating the direction in which Jake departed towards Andy. He frowned slightly. "Jake's interestingly fine with such things."

"Oh?" Andy quirked his eyebrow. "Is there something I should know about?"

He was fixing the cuffs of his shirt.

Morrissey reached out and touched Andy's forearm.

"No." He looked at Andy, that small frown still on his face. "Will you stay a bit longer?"

Andy smiled, moving to button himself up. "Sure, if you want me to."

Morrissey caught his hand. "I do."

Andy looked at their joined hands and sighed for what felt like tenth time that day.

"Steven..."

"Finally," Morrissey murmured and stepped closer.

Andy bit his lip, unsure. "You _still_ want that?"

This time it was Morrissey who sighed.

"Stop asking me that every time we meet." He brought Andy's hand to his lips and kissed the inside of his wrist. "I want everything."

Andy blushed slightly - he could never prevent his reaction to that oddly chaste/sensual kiss. Who kissed their lover's wrists anyway?

"Greedy git," he muttered, covering his embarrassment with a giggle.

"Your fault."

Morrissey unbuttoned one shirt cuff then the other and slid the shirt off Andy's shoulders. They were standing so close that Andy saw Morrissey's pupils dilate as he looked at him.

Andy's breath came a little faster.

"You've lost weight again." Morrissey finally commented on what he saw earlier, his fingers tracing imaginary shapes across Andy's belly. "You're not taking drugs again, are you?" He looked up.

"No," Andy said sharply, then continued in a softer tone. "I guess a messy divorce is as good as a diet."

Morrissey tried to hide his smile. Unsuccessfully.

Andy rolled his eyes. "You could _try_ to look a little less pleased, you know? Say you're sorry or something."

"But I'm not." Amusement danced in Morrissey's eyes as he leant closer. "I've got you all to myself now." And he closed the distance between their mouths.

The kiss was slow and sweet - a lovers' greeting. When they parted, Morrissey rested his forehead against Andy's.

"I've missed you," he whispered.

"I've missed you too."

Theirs was a strange relationship. They got together well after The Smiths ended, each of them unable to see his importance in the other's heart.

It was their last/first gig - the one without Johnny - and a photo shoot and Morrissey had asked Andy to write something on his chest (again) and... something happened.

It was Andy who made the first move; he'd figured they wouldn't work together anymore anyway - the group without Johnny was a bit of a farce and Morrissey surely wouldn't want Andy to tag along into his solo work. And with good reason too, as it would only have invited speculation in the press and false hopes for reunion.

And so, Andy had plucked up the courage and with one kiss managed to turn his and Morrissey's lives completely upside down.

They never got together "properly" too. Never lived together, they were too different for that to work. Andy got a girlfriend, of whom Morrissey was not jealous. Much. Well, he tried not to be. He fully realised his own shortcomings and knew Andy needed a bit more human warmth than he himself would ever be able to give. So he wasn't that jealous, really, and his shock upon hearing Andy was getting married lasted only an hour. And he really wasn't bitter about it. Not at all.

But, Lord, he missed this man. Missed his voice, his touch, his scent. He licked a stripe up Andy's neck - from his shoulder up to his ear. Oh, he missed the taste too.

He slowly sank to his knees, nuzzling on his way down, Andy's chest and then his belly.

"Steven?"

Andy blinked, his breathing definitely faster now.

"Hm?" Morrissey smoothed his hands over Andy's thighs.

"Are you going to...?" He bit his lip. Sometims he just couldn't stop himself from saying the stupidest things. It was pretty obvious what Mozzer was going to do. Christ.

Morrissey looked up at Andy thoughtfully.

"Well, you said yourself I have some apologising to do."

Andy took a breath, his mind going to a bit of news he read the other day. He frowned.

"That 'lawnmower parts'[2] comment was a really low blow."

"I agree."

Andy squinted down at his lover suspiciously.

"You mean to say you did that on purpose?"

"Never." Morrissey began to unbutton and unzip Andy's jeans, but Andy's mind latched onto the discovery.

"You did," he accused. You--"

And he would have said more, except Morrissey chose that moment to swallow Andy's cock.

Andy groaned.

Ah, fuck. At least he was being apologised to. Very, oh, nicely.

Although shouldn't apologising be done a lot less eagerly? Damn, he should make Steven scrub the floor at his home or wash his car or something as an apology. Not this.

Andy gasped as he felt Morrissey's mouth sliding off his cock. He opened his eyes - he didn't even realise he'd closed them - and looked down at the man kneeling before him. Morrissey was delicately kissing the head of Andy's prick, his lips barely touching the skin.

Fuck, who cared about how to say "sorry" anyway? Andy could still make Steven wash his car later, but now he deserved _this_.

Andy gripped the back of Morrissey's head with a firm hand. Morrissey looked up at him coyly through his eyelashes, his fingers wrapped around the base of Andy's erection.

"Yes? You want something?" Morrissey's lips moved against the very tip of Andy's cock.

Fucking tease, Andy grinned. "Suck me."

Without the slightest hesitation Morrissey opened his mouth and did just that.

Andy moaned and involuntarily thrust deeper into his lover's mouth. Morrissey took him easily, his hands going to Andy's hips, not so much to control his thrusting as to pull him even closer.

Andy's grip on Morrissey's hair tightened. "Easy. Make it last."

Well, they were both fucking teases.

Morrissey hummed around the flesh in his mouth and Andy bit his lip to stop himself from groaning again. It was difficult as fuck - Steven licked a path up his cock and then fluttered his tongue against that place that always made Andy completely lose his ability to think.

"Fuck." Andy shuddered as Morrissey sucked him in deeper again.

A moment later he gasped as Mozzer slid his mouth off his cock and instead started nibbling the skin of Andy's lower belly. His arms went around Andy's hips in a hug and he buried his nose in the hair surrounding the base of Andy's cock, inhaling deeply.

"Steven," Andy hissed as Morrissey nuzzled and licked him there and then lower. Over his balls, the skin of his inner thighs, then up again, playing with Andy's foreskin, kissing he underside of his cock, rubbing his cheek against it - trapping it against Andy's belly - and smearing the pre-come leaking from the tip all over his face and Andy's stomach. He licked off what he could, then closed his lips around the head of Andy's cock again, his tongue rubbing into the slit and catching more of the bitter fluid. He swallowed it greedily, thirsty for it as if it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

By that point Andy was pretty sure he was going to come any second. He gently pulled Morrissey's head away from himself.

"No." Morrissey looked up at Andy, still clutching his hips. "Let me taste you."

"Fuck, Steven..." Andy had to close his eyes or he'd have come right there and then. He exhaled and looked down, his eyes locking with Morrissey's.

"All right." He caressed the back of Morrissey's head and the nape of his neck.

"All right," he repeated, a tiny smile curving one corner of his mouth. "Swallow it then."

With a relieved sigh, Morrissey leant forward and swallowed Andy's cock to the root.

Andy was helpless to resist and after about thirty seconds he came, shooting his seed down Morrissey's throat, Morrissey swallowing every single precious drop.

After the last tremors faded, Andy bonelessly slid down to his knees and rested his head on Morrissey's shoulder.

"You're fucking amazing." He panted into his lover's neck, his arms going around Morrissey.

"Why, thank you." There was fond amusement in Morrissey's slightly breathy voice. He rubbed his face, still damp from the last traces of Andy's pre-come, against the side of Andy's neck. "It was my pleasure."

Andy breathed a laugh. "Really? Wouldn't notice."

His hand crept down to rest between Morrissey's thighs. He rubbed the hardness under the fabric of Morrissey's trousers and then, seemingly shaking himself out of his post-orgasmic stupor, lifted his head.

Morrissey saw with satisfaction that Andy still looked drugged out of his mind with pleasure. He kissed Andy's cheek.

Andy smiled wider.

"You're wearing too much, you know?" he said, beginning to unbutton Morrissey's shirt.

Morrissey made a non-committal sound and watched the downward progress of Andy's hands. They still shook a little but Andy managed and when he reached the belt of Morrissey's jeans, they were steady again.

A moment later he had Morrissey's trousers unzipped, his hand on Morrissey's erection and his tongue in Morrissey's mouth.

Morrissey moaned in delight and clung to Andy's shoulders for support. He was already on the brink so it only took a few strokes of Andy's fingers before Morrissey came, his shout swallowed by Andy's eager mouth.

Andy's grip gentled. He released Morrissey's mouth with a final lick to his upper lip and brought his hand up to his face. And then, making sure Mozzer saw it all, he licked his hand clean of his lover's come.

Morrissey groaned. "You're going to be the death of me, you filthy filthy boy."

Andy laughed at that. "I'm not the only one here." He fluttered his eyelashes. "You still love me anyway, though, right?"

"I do," Morrissey murmured before he took Andy's lips in another kiss.

"Will you stay the night?" he asked when they parted.

"Of course." Andy smiled. "You've still got some apologising to do, after all."

The End

* * *

[1] - [Whatever Happens, I Love You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HsE_A2fVXHs)  
[2] - Morrissey's exact words about Rourke (and Joyce) were: "session musicians who could be replaced like parts of a lawnmower."

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic came from a rather facetious comment I left on a friend's Tumblr. Her fault - she posted this, among other things:
> 
>   
> And if someone's interested, Andy at that time looked like [this](http://i876.photobucket.com/albums/ab330/with_nail/smiths/andywithlonghair-cropped_zpse0211f28.jpg) (pic complete with the "poncey-looking beard").


End file.
